“If you stand in with Retana in this town, you’re a made man,” the tall waiter said. “If you aren’t in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.”
“You said it,” the other waiter who had come in said. “You said it then.”
“You’re right I said it,” said the tall waiter. “I know what I’m talking about when I talk about that bird.”
“Look what he’s done for Villalta,” the first waiter said.
“And that ain’t all,” the tall waiter said. “Look what he’s done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what he’s done for Nacional.”
“You said it, kid,” agreed the short waiter.
Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him.
“Look at that bunch of camels,” the tall waiter went on. “Did you ever see this Nacional II?”
“I seen him last Sunday, didn’t I?” the original waiter said.
“He’s a giraffe,” the short waiter said.
“What did I tell you?” the tall waiter said. “Those are Retana’s boys.”
“Say, give me another shot of that,” Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking.
The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of them went out of the room talking.
In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the intaking breath, his head back against the wall.
Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep.
When he woke there was someone sitting across the table from him. It was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian. He had been sitting there some time. He had waved the waiter away and sat reading the paper and occasionally looking down at Manuel, asleep, his head on the table. He read the paper laboriously, forming the words with his lips as he read. When it tired him he looked at Manuel. He sat heavily in the chair, his black Cordoba hat tipped forward.
Manuel sat up and looked at him.
“Hello, Zurito,” he said.
“Hello, kid,” the big man said.
“I’ve been asleep.” Manuel rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist.
“I thought maybe you were.”
“How’s everything?”
“Good. How is everything with you?”
“Not so good.”
They were both silent. Zurito, the picador, looked at Manuel’s white face. Manuel looked down at the picador’s enormous hands folding the paper to put away in his pocket.
“I got a favor to ask you, Manos,” Manuel said.
Manosduros was Zurito’s nickname. He never heard it without thinking of his huge hands. He put them forward on the table self-consciously.
“Let’s have a drink,” he said.
“Sure,” said Manuel.
The waiter came and went and came again. He went out of the room looking back at the two men at the table.
“What’s the matter, Manolo?” Zurito set down his glass.
“Would you pic two bulls for me tomorrow night?” Manuel asked, looking up at Zurito across the table.
“No,” said Zurito. “I’m not pic-ing.”
Manuel looked down at his glass. He had expected that answer; now he had it. Well, he had it.
“I’m sorry, Manolo, but I’m not pic-ing.” Zurito looked at his hands.
“That’s all right,” Manuel said.
“I’m too old,” Zurito said.
“I just asked you,” Manuel said.
“Is it the nocturnal tomorrow?”
“That’s it. I figured if I had just one good pic, I could get away with it.”
“How much are you getting?”
“Three hundred pesetas.”
“I get more than that for pic-ing.”
“I know,” said Manuel. “I didn’t have any right to ask you.”
“What do you keep on doing it for?” Zurito asked. “Why don’t you cut off your coleta, Manolo?”
“I don’t know,” Manuel said.
“You’re pretty near as old as I am,” Zurito said.
“I don’t know,” Manuel said. “I got to do it. If I can fix it so that I get an even break, that’s all I want. I got to stick with it, Manos.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve tried keeping away from it.”
“I know how you feel. But it isn’t right. You ought to get out and stay out.”
“I can’t do it. Besides, I’ve been going good lately.”
Zurito looked at his face.
“You’ve been in the hospital.”
“But I was going great when I got hurt.”
Zurito said nothing. He tipped the cognac out of his saucer into his glass.
“The papers said they never saw a better faena,” Manuel said.
Zurito looked at him.
“You know when I get going I’m good,” Manuel said.
“You’re too old,” the picador said.
“No,” said Manuel. “You’re ten years older than I am.”
“With me it’s different.”
“I’m not too old,” Manuel said.
They sat silent, Manuel watching the picador’s face.
“I was going great till I got hurt,” Manuel offered.
“You ought to have seen me, Manos,” Manuel said, reproachfully.
“I don’t want to see you,” Zurito said. “It makes me nervous.”
“You haven’t seen me lately.”
“I’ve seen you plenty.”
Zurito looked at Manuel, avoiding his eyes.
“You ought to quit it, Manolo.”
“I can’t,” Manuel said. “I’m going good now, I tell you.”
Zurito leaned forward, his hands on the table.
“Listen. I’ll pic for you and if you don’t go big tomorrow night, you’ll quit. See? Will you do that?”
“Sure.”
Zurito leaned back, relieved.
“You got to quit,” he said. “No monkey business. You got to cut the coleta.”
“I won’t have to quit,” Manuel said. “You watch me. I’ve got the stuff.”
Zurito stood up. He felt tired from arguing.
“You got to quit,” he said. “I’ll cut your coleta myself.”
“No, you won’t,” Manuel said. “You won’t have a chance.”
Zurito called the waiter.
“Come on,” said Zurito. “Come on up to the house.”
Manuel reached under the seat for his suitcase. He was happy. He knew Zurito would pic for him. He was the best picador living. It was all simple now.
“Come on up to the house and we’ll eat,” Zurito said.
Manuel stood in the patio de caballos waiting for the Charlie Chaplins to be over. Zurito stood beside him. Where they stood it was dark. The high door that led into the bull-ring was shut. Above them they heard a shout, then another shout of laughter. Then there was silence. Manuel liked the smell of the stables about the patio de caballos. It smelt good in the dark. There was another roar from the arena and then applause, prolonged applause, going on and on.
“You ever seen these fellows?” Zurito asked, big and looming beside Manuel in the dark.
“No,” Manuel said.
“They’re pretty funny,” Zurito said. He smiled to himself in the dark.
The high, double, tight-fitting door into the bull-ring swung open and Manuel saw the ring in the hard light of the arc-lights, the plaza, dark all the way around, rising high; around the edge of the ring were running and bowing two men dressed like tramps, followed by a third in the uniform of a hotel bell-boy who stooped and picked up the hats and canes thrown down onto the sand and tossed them back up into the darkness.
The electric light went on in the patio.
“I’ll climb onto one of those ponies while you collect the kids,” Zurito said.
Behind them came the jingle of the mules, coming out to go into the arena and be hitched onto the dead bull.
The members of the cuadrilla, who had been watching the burlesque from the runway between the barrera and the seals, came walking back and stood in a group talking, under the electric light in the patio. A good-looking lad in a silver-and-orange suit came up to Manuel and smiled.
“I’m Hernandez,” he said and put out his hand.
Manuel shook it.
“They’re regular elephants we’ve got tonight,” the boy said cheerfully.
“They’re big ones with horns,” Manuel agreed.
“You drew the worst lot,” the boy said.
“That’s all right,” Manuel said. “The bigger they are, the more meat for the poor.”
“Where did you get that one?” Hernandez grinned.
“That’s an old one,” Manuel said. “You line up your cuadrilla, so I can see what I’ve got.”
“You’ve got some good kids,” Hernandez said. He was very cheerful. He had been on twice before in nocturnals and was beginning to get a following in Madrid. He was happy the fight would start in a few minutes.
“Where are the pics?” Manuel asked.
“They’re back in the corrals fighting about who gets the beautiful horses,” Hernandez grinned.
The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells jangling and the young bull ploughing a furrow of sand.
They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through.
Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In back, the four picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the half-dark of the corral.
“It’s a wonder Retana wouldn’t give us enough light to see the horses by,” one picador said.
He knows we’ll be happier if we don’t get too good a look at these skins,” another pic answered.
“This thing I’m on barely keeps me off the ground,” the first picador said.
“Well, they’re horses.”
“Sure, they’re horses.”
They talked, sitting their gaunt horses in the dark.
Zurito said nothing. He had the only steady horse of the lot. He had tried him, wheeling him in the corrals and he responded to the bit and the spurs. He had taken the bandage off his right
